The spring in my flight of fancy
could use
more than a dollop of whip cream.
Something sweet and slippery
to smooth over
the shriek of metal on mental.
Even when nothing is twisting
my neck
to reject the regret at my heels.
Likewise, I could lean on placebo
or pill
to cure my horizon foreboding.
All the shapes in the future
wear masks
to obscure the hobgoblins.
The present is gift-wrapped for me
with a bow,
but a violin quivers away
with a haunting etude meant to
teach me
to make all the best of the music
Right Here.